


Letters to the Lost

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, M/M, alex is sad, john's dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:29:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The news of John Laurens' death reaches Alexander Hamilton and his small family, and it tears him apart. And so, he writes letters, day after day, to his dear Laurens, until that too, destroys him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters to the Lost

To say that Alexander Hamilton was good friends with John Laurens was a massive understatement. There was no denying it-- they loved each other as friends, perhaps as something more.

There were forbidden kisses in the dark, nights they had promised to take to their graves, moments of passion and lust, sweet, empty words whispered to each other when no one was there to listen.

He took a breath, continuing to write, relishing the memory of John’s lips on his skin. Candlelight threw itself onto the paper, illuminating his words almost eerily.

Eliza’s voice shocked him out of his daydreaming. “Alexander? There’s a letter for you from South Carolina,” she said softly.

Alexander felt his heart skip a beat, thinking of the words in the paper his wife now held in her hands. Kindhearted, passionate John who had chosen  _ him _ , of all people, to love. A secret smile spread across his face, but he knew he couldn’t read the letter around Eliza, who was now looking at him with gentle, concerned eyes.

“It’s from John Laurens. I’ll read it later,” Alexander said as dismissively as possible, nonchalantly brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes.

Eliza shook her head. “No. It’s from his father.”

Something in him dropped a little bit, a twinge of nervousness that twisted his insides. “His father?” He said, trying to ignore the strange feeling in his stomach. “Will you read it?”

Eliza took a breath, her eyes not leaving the paper. “On Tuesday the 27th, my son was killed in a gunfight against British troops retreating from South Carolina.”

Alexander stayed silent, trying to blink the tears out of his eyes.

“The war was already over. As you know, John dreamed of emancipating and recruiting 3000 men for the first all-black military regiment. His dream of freedom for these men dies with him.” Eliza’s voice faltered. “Alexander, are you alright?”

He took a shaky breath, managing to keep tears from spilling onto the paper in front of him. “I… 

“I have so much work to do,” he choked out. He felt as if he had been gutted, like someone had taken his heart and twisted and squeezed it into dust.

He put down his quill and walked calmly to his office. His breaths shook uncontrollably, his steps unsteady.

Eliza didn’t try to stop him. Instead, she set down the letter, trying to ignore the aching in her chest. The look on her dear Alexander’s face, the shadow that had passed through the eyes she had fallen in love with.

The sheer pain that had fallen upon him when she read the letter to him. It hurt her to know that it had been her that made him crumble, and it hurt her to know she could not help him. She had to let it run its course or else he would simply push her away, staying alone to wallow in misery.

All she could do was make sure he was eating, sleeping, make sure he didn’t kill himself in his grief.

She heard a soft sob coming from behind Alexander’s office door. It was short and pained, like he had been trying his hardest to keep it silent.

Alexander sat alone in his office, head hanging. Tears were rolling down his face, falling onto a blank piece of paper. He watched as it started to curl and warp, slick with tears and reflecting orange candlelight.

John Laurens, with his warm smile and bright hazel eyes and his freckles that dotted his face like stars, was dead.

For nothing.

He would never hear that gentle, cheerful voice again.

And the battalion his dear Laurens had worked so hard to free. The men he had defended with a fiery passion were in chains once more. All he had worked for was just… gone.

America was free, but at what cost?

Thousands and thousands of lives lost.

Men he knew, men he fought alongside, gone.

Dreams left behind by the dead disappearing into the wind.

All for what? A nation that wasn’t truly free?

A strangled sob escaped his throat, a sound of anger and sadness and despair and the longing for everything John had left behind.

And so, Alexander carried on. He picked up a quill and tried to write his way out, like he always had.

_ August 26, 1782 _

_ My dear Laurens, _

_ Yesterday they told me that you were dead. It seems I am lost without your guidance. You always said that tomorrow there will be more of us. You were correct, as you always are. Yet it doesn’t feel right. _

_ Because although there are more of us, you are not one of them, and it still feels empty. _

_ And yes, although we have fought and bled and cried for freedom, they have returned your regiment to their masters. But please, John, do not think you have lived for nothing. You have lived and breathed and died for these men, and I promise you, they will see freedom one day.  _

_ And if it is of any comfort, remind yourself that I have lived for you. Please do not forget, my dear Laurens, that I will join you one day, and I am looking forward to it. _

_ And please do not forget, my dear Laurens, that I love you, and I will make sure that your dreams live on. _

_ -AH _

 

_ August 27th, 1782 _

_ My dear Laurens, _

_ They keep saying that you are dead, but that does not begin to describe what you are. It seems that after a man is gone, that is all he is. But I do hope you know that you are so much more. _

_ You are filled with passion and kindness and joy and ambition. And I love you for it. I always wondered, and still do wonder, why you chose me to love. I had thought of you as a distant dream, a simple adolescent desire. I never dreamed that you would even look in my direction. But you did, and now you are gone, and I am left to brave the world without you. _

_ Eliza stays by herself, caring for Philip and tending to the house. She makes no effort to comfort me, to hover. She simply comes into my office to leave plates of food, most of which go untouched, and for that, I am grateful. _

_ I continue reading your last letter, over and over. You wrote it with your father’s high-quality ink-- I can tell. _

_ The ink does not bleed when my tears fall upon your words. _

_ -AH _

Alexander wrote like this for weeks. He barely took time to eat or sleep. He went to work, argued with Jefferson, spoke with Washington. But once he returned home, he reverted to his hollowed-out state.

Every night he would light the same tallow candle, his hand trembling as he feverishly scribbled out pages and pages of words to a man long gone.

And every night, Eliza would watch Philip laying peacefully in his crib, swaddled in blankets. Her eyes would fill with tears as she grew more and more certain that he would grow up without a father.

“Alexander,” she said in the dead of night. Of course, he wasn’t sleeping. Instead, he was pacing around the house, eyes trained on the floor.

“Yes?” He replied distractedly, continuing to walk.

“I understand that you’re heartbroken over John’s death but--” she started to say, approaching the matter as if Alexander were a feral, unpredictable beast.

He stopped pacing, staring down at her with a face filled with wrath and misery. “No, Eliza, you don’t,” he almost shouted, his voice breaking. “John was one of the closest friends I had, and now he’s  _ dead _ . So, Elizabeth Schuyler, do  _ not _ act like you understand what I’m going through!”

Eliza’s plan of discussing the matter in a civilized manner disappeared. “Alexander Hamilton, you truly care for no one,” she replied in an icy tone. “Look at yourself! You’ve lost so much weight-- skin and bones. When was the last time you slept?”

“Eliza--”

She let her feelings uncoil, gesturing uncontrollably. “When was the last time you sat down at the table and had a  _ conversation _ with me? I understand you need time to recover, but it’s been five months. And even if you no longer care for me, what about your son? When was the last time you actually tried to spend some of your  _ precious _ time with him?”

Alexander’s voice was reduced to a whisper. “Eliza…”

Eliza swiped a small hand mirror off of the nightstand. “Look at yourself.”

He did.

There were dark gray shadows under his eyes. His hair was limp and flat, his skin pale and almost translucent. His cheeks were sunken in, his lips cracked and dry.

“Don’t you think John would have wanted you to move on? Remember him, Alexander, but not like this.” Eliza sighed as their son began to wail. “We’ve woken Philip.” She looked up at her husband with hopeful eyes shining with tears. “Would you like to come?”

Alexander nodded, setting down the mirror. He gathered his stack of letters to John, took Eliza’s hand, and smiled.

And as he sang a gentle lullaby to his son, he watched his letters burn in the fire.

_ Tomorrow there’ll be more of us, my dear Laurens, but we will not forget the soldiers of yesterday. _

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing angst for Hamilton. Was it okay?


End file.
